


Gold

by aijee



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Growing Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aijee/pseuds/aijee
Summary: When Yuri turns six, “living legend” is too far a reach for his just-sprouting limbs. (Later on, he will understand that the title was always destined for another.)(Or: A story of Yuri Plistesky and the love he learns throughout the first season.)





	Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I see much of Yuri’s development as built upon his dependence on Victor and what Victor stood for, a dynamic that is both professional and emotional. I love how complex he is, and I really hope to see more of that complexity in the future.
> 
> I've taken some creative interpretation of the canon dialogue and events in the anime. Some dialogue has been taken directly or omitted from subtitled videos, edited slightly, or written myself.

 

"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."

Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

 

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky’s life is marked with both impatience and selective maturity the moment of his birth.

He emerges two months early, lungs brimful with the sturdy cries of an infant well beyond his years. He has a vigor that contrasts sharply against the reediness of his bones and the twisted scrunch of his angelic, timeless face.

The first thing the nurse says is of soft humor: the child will be a strong, determined boy—if his volume is any indication.

The second thing the nurse says is of soft admiration: the child will have the eyes of his father—the color of leaves born from winter’s end. He will have the beautiful locks of his mother—lush threads spun from gold itself.

Yuri Plisetsky will be a fairytale breathed to life.

The nurse smiles. _He will be a living legend among men_ , _loved by all of Russia and beyond._

 

* * *

 

When Yuri turns six, “living legend” is too far a reach for his just-sprouting limbs. (Later on, he will understand that the title was always destined for another.) For him, recalling this part of his life only results in a mind fog thin enough to distinguish coherence, but not to achieve it.

Here is what he knows: he is an ember that withdraws from his parents’ home of forest fires. Now a lost spark, Yuri lights fires wherever he goes, even in the solace in his grandfather’s care in St. Petersburg, the only place equal to Moscow in grooming the finest of Russia’s ice-borne royalty—figure skaters.

The term “love” quickly turns into an untouchable void somewhere in the ether of Yuri’s existence. If he learned anything from his father, it’s that separation is a tried-and-true solution to any problem, so Yuri teaches himself compartmentalization, a form of separation within himself to conceal the unsightly hole.

But he’s just six-years-old and capable of only so much. His execution is a malformed quilt of fictionalized reality at best, strewn with gaps he doesn’t know how to mend. His hands are built for twirling, not for fixing the broken.

What Yuri does remember with distinct clarity is the connection between his first steps on St. Petersburg’s ice and his first meeting with a young—

“Victor Nikiforov. Nice to meet you!”

Yuri looks at the outstretched hand, perplexed. Victor, young and beautiful and the definition of brilliant, reaches further to simply take Yuri’s hand in his for an enthusiastic handshake.

Where Yuri’s hair is golden and glowing like a halo, Victor’s is icy silver and glints sharp angles like shards of ice. Where Yuri’s eyes are verdant gems surrounded by pale velvet, Victor’s are limpid, untainted skies set in alabaster porcelain.

Where Yuri is alone and weak, Victor is self-reliant and talented, well-loved, successful, and more. He is everything Yuri has ever wanted to be.

That day, Yuri makes a household name of Victor in his mind— _hero—_ before the rest of Russia, and the world, follows suit.

That day, atop the frozen mirror beneath him, Yuri pledges to find success the way Victor does, because if Victor Nikiforov can, you can be damn sure Yuri Plisetsky can, too.

 

* * *

 

In the faraway fable that is Yuri’s childhood, the next and most prominent character appears when Yuri is ten—the age when dreams start becoming reality.

Yuri is in a cramped ballet studio with a dozen other novices, ranging from dream-seekers to dream-catchers, all thirsty for success. Like them, he is dressed in all black, but only his skin shines the color of snow, dusted gold with sunlight streaming into the room.

One boy there is unlike the rest with his olive complexion, thick black hair, and twitching, uncoordinated musculature. A bumbling bear among swans, the boy is earnest in his movements, fruitless in his attempts, and determined in his gaze.

Yuri himself doesn’t particularly enjoy this camp either, especially with Yakov’s daily reminders now a crotchety echo in his ear, but there is some relative satisfaction in seeing another’s suffering. Yuri has not learned what guilt is and cannot help but indulge in such breadcrumbs of happiness.

When their lines of sight meet, Yuri finally notices that his observations are the result of unrealized staring. But the boy is not startled into a repulsed frown like Yuri anticipates. Rather, on the boy’s face is a sincere curl of a smile, perhaps in response to Yuri’s own.

And so this all starts on the foot of a slight misunderstanding. Yuri doesn’t have the heart to admit the truth of his small, cruel joy.

As the days pass, the boy becomes more comfortable in seeking Yuri’s oddly compliant guidance. For once, Yuri is not the seeker, but the one being sought, and the thought brings him inexplicable and exotic pleasure.

Yuri’s blood runs with an intoxicating warmth at the boy’s successes and expressions of gratitude towards his younger teacher. The boy’s straightforwardness—

“Teach me how you position your feet so well.”

“I wish the teacher explained stuff like you do.”

“Wow, you’re amazing at this.”

—is almost embarrassing. Yuri envies the boy’s darker tones, for his own pale cheeks do nothing to hide his perpetual flush, sweet and innocent and befitting his youth.

For a glorious moment, Yuri forgets everything but the boy in front of him. It is then that Yuri learns what peace feels like.

On the last day of camp, Yuri lingers a look at him.

It’s the end of the final lesson and the children are restless with arbitrary chatter. The boy is nothing like them with his words inclined towards necessity rather than frippery. His stance is stoic and strong as he looks out the window, as if waiting for something, or missing someone.

The sunlight catches in the boy’s mussed hair like golden flakes. It swells in his sweat-slicked face, infant creeks of liquid gold.

The boy shines, quietly, as if he and the sun are in speaking in private.

Yuri doesn’t bother restraining the color from suffusing his skin when the boy catches him staring again. Yuri owns up to it this time, staring harder, petulantly.

He is ready to be rebuffed or chided for his childishness, and he has a scathing response cocked in his throat out of habit.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Yuri finds himself enveloped in the boy’s arms, warm like a woolen blanket protecting Yuri from the bitterness of the outside world.

“Thank you,” he hears.

Then they part ways.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Yuri, can you pass me the bandages? I’ll give you candy!” Victor sings it so cheerfully for someone who’s tied his skates too tight and suffered the consequences again.

“I don’t need candy to get you bandages, geezer.”

“Excuse you, I’m barely twenty!”

Yuri is at the age when he’s starting to recognize that Victor is running through their bandage supply, but Yuri still says nothing out of respect. “Whatever. You prefer the bigger ones right?”

“Ah, you know me so well.” Still singsong, still smiling. Yuri wonders if it's real. “Wanna catch dinner with me after practice?”

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Yuri blades through eleven to fourteen with the ease of a next-generation prodigy.

He is as much of a living paradox as everyone expected. On the ice, he’s the poster child of grace, ready to be embellished with performance-grade modesty and gentility. Behind the magician’s curtain, he is a tornado of fire and brimstone, branded by his shotgun mouth and premature hubris; “pretentious” would be included if he didn’t have the skills and medals to prove otherwise.

A master of embroidery and magic, Yuri weaves fantasies with a flick of his wrist here, a bat of his eyelashes there. People watch on, enraptured by this once-in-a-generation winter flower, one that needs only the scarcest of sunlight to thrive. At this, Yuri wonders why such a frigid sport is treated with so much false warmth.

For three years, the Junior World Championships are mere child’s play, almost an insult to his hardened capabilities.

He is no longer just Yuri Plisetsky. No, he is a champion of many names: “Russia’s rising star,” “the Russian fairy,” “a complete monster on the ice—”

Many claim that, despite his age, Yuri Plisetsky has burst from the shadow of rink mate Victor Nikiforov and is already inking his name in history books. But when he looks to Victor, Yuri still feels light years behind where he desperately wants to be. While Yuri is still stuck in fairy tales, Victor is already immersed in legends.

Instead of rivaling his own grandeur, Victor’s strength matches it and dances in tandem with his siren-like beauty. His expertly compacted allure and knack for surprise translate into an unquenchable magnetism—a one-sided chase—perfect for the stage. It's practically magic.

But Yuri isn’t stupid. He knows magic doesn’t exist, and neither does talent.

This is all just a game of positioning mirrors and producing the right amount of smoke to hide the pulsing blisters, aching bruises, devastated relationships. No one sees the cage when the bird is so beautiful.

Like any performance, figure skating is merely a spectacle of artifice, idolatry—creating humanity out of nothing. Behind Victor’s beguiling displays of choreographed emotions are lonely nights at the rink, long after everyone has retired, and an orphaned dog locking Victor’s waning humanity. These are only two pities from a million more.

Victor Nikiforov is not a genius for his charming performances. He is a genius for producing the greatest, most tragic joke of the century: he shows that the breadth of human experiences—whether happiness or sadness or love—is merely a product of nothing. Everything on the ice is either dead or nonexistent.

Russia’s Living Legend has everyone eating right out of his palm, and that’s exactly the pleasure Yuri is hungry to revel in.

The moment he turns fifteen, he badgers Yakov endlessly about making his senior division debut.

“I’ve been ready to leave juniors ever since I entered it,” Yuri snarls with bloodthirst. “Amateurs, all of them.”

At first, Yakov shakes his head, frown the same as ever. “No. You need to refine your skills and develop a more stable reputation. Wait a year or two, then we talk.”

Vexed at the way Yakov speaks, as if to a child, Yuri refuses to accept such disrespectful treatment any longer. He is no child; he outgrew that label a very, very long time ago.

He pesters and pesters and _pesters_ until Yakov’s resolve snaps like a spine to a sledgehammer. ~~~~

* * *

 

It's the night after the Grand Prix Final, the fifth consecutive gold for Victor, and Yuri has never been more irritated in his life. If anyone brings up the name “Katsuki” in his presence, he'll maim them on the spot.

Yakov insisted that Yuri attend to familiarize with the atmosphere, which is admittedly more intense than the Junior Championships could ever be. But Yuri attended to be impressed and to learn, not to leave feeling so fucking let down. Wanting more of _something_.

But there he is, aching for that something he can't express in words and it irritates him to no end. And it all has to do with Japan’s supposed best, Yuuri Katsuki. Don’t even get Yuri started on the banquet.

After hours of scrolling through social media to numb the pain of the uneventful night, Yuri pauses on a news article. His attention piques at keywords:

Hero.

Kazakhstan.

Altin _. Gold._

Ah, this is Otabek Altin, Kazakhstan’s national hero in the world of figure skating and the very recent Grand Prix Final bronze medalist.

Otabek is everything Victor, Yuri, and most skaters are not. Unadorned in every way, Otabek is quiet, near silent, and amusingly clipped off the ice. Untrue to his name, his expressiveness is sloughed of any gilding—perfectly eloquent with simple, robust masculinity. Otabek’s manly image is something Yuri has infinitely wished to replace his cloyingly epicene appeal.

The guy is a sight for sore eyes in an industry as contrived as theirs, and Yuri envies the Kazakh’s lack of domestic competition and magnificent title.

Yuri often despises his nicknames. Being called a monster is basically being called an abomination.

But when Yuri properly considers it, he eventually surrenders to the thought, _What else can I ever be?_

 

* * *

 

This was all just a miscalculation—a slight deviation in his plans, Yuri _swears_.

Returning from the shit-storm Hasetsu turned out to be, Yuri feels the most drained he’s ever been. Yuri blames himself for being surprised despite so many years of studying the very personification of selfish spontaneity.

 _“What is agape to you, Victor?”_ Yuri had asked, angry and confused.

 _“…A feeling,”_ came the ludicrously flippant response, as if he was expected to read the giddy bastard’s goddamn mind. Yuri will bet all his fucking toes that the faker has no idea what unconditional love even is.

( _He promised me, the traitor_ promised _—_ )

To be abandoned so bluntly by someone you’ve revered for so long, to see that person abandon all that you’ve admired about him, and then for you to lose to what he’s abandoned everything— _you—_ for…takes a lot out of a person, even when equipped with an ice-cold heart of steel like Yuri Plisetsky.

After arriving at the airport, he vaguely registers Yakov yelling at him. Something about “completely unnecessary theatrics.” Another about Victor being “a fucking terrible influence.”

They arrive at a red light.

Suddenly, Yuri hears a quiet, careful warning: “Don’t turn into him, Yura. Not into that monster.”

He should feel more confident now with Victor out of this year’s running. But all Yuri can register is a vile mixture of rage, self-directed frustration—

(He staunchly denies any suggestion of a humbling experience.)

Victor, the inexperienced buffoon, has resigned to coaching his new glass house of a pet. Their stupidity is infectious, infinitely so when together, and Yuri deeply regrets wasting his time on their bullshit spirit quests.

However, Yuri can at least admit that glass houses hold some degree of elegance. Katsudon (it’s derogatory _shut up)_ isn’t capable of artifice. Each pore, sound, and glance has the utmost patience and care, feather-soft and practically unreal. With a master’s degree in personal flaws and an elementary education in personal merit, Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t hide behind mirror tricks and faux emotions like his mentor.

Yuri vividly remembers last year’s GPF. He watched in famished, almost feverish irritation as Japan’s top skater flopped programs that hid what simple honesty could accomplish. Yuri’s seen what he can do. Why the fuck was the guy holding back? And why is Yuri so _angry_ about it?

But perhaps the most baffling part of all this lunacy was that Yuuri’s heart-on-sleeve disposition was not unique to him. In actuality, it somehow pervaded Hasetsu’s entire cast of characters.

Everyone happily overlooked the Russians’ ill-mannered interruption of their quiet paradise. Everyone showered them with warmth as constant as the hot springs and with savories fit for the gods. It’s as if they intentionally treated both Yuri’s with the same relaxed kindness.

“Yurio” they called him, teasing and clean of condescension. Sitting down for dinner with them for the first time, surrounded by faces creased with laughter and tanned by ocean horizons, Yuri realized that the good-natured moniker is not in possessive favor of the other Yuuri.

To them, Russian Yuri is no fairy to be captured and displayed for ogling eyes. He is not Yuri Plisetsky, abomination on the ice. He is Yurio, the newest, fifteen-year-old addition to their dysfunctional family; the name is a mark of acceptance untainted by hidden motives.

Perhaps Yurio is a name truer to himself than Yuri Plisetsky. But you’d have to hold him at gunpoint to ever hear that.

 

 

 

“What the hell, Yuri! That’s the fourth time today!”

“Sorry, sorry. Let me do it again.”

It’s a forgivable thing if it’s once, and an acceptable thing if it’s twice or thrice, fine, but it becomes a _what the fuck_ thing when he can’t land a simple flip four fucking times in a row.

Yuri blames it all on Dumb and Dumber back in Japan. Yuri can’t seem to disinfect the filth of their sickeningly mutual infatuation, of the way Victor fawned over Yuuri as if his skating career and his promises didn’t matter anymore. They’ve made the green of Yuri’s eyes flash in loathsome curiosity and other unidentifiable feelings that make his hands itch, yearning for something tangible where there is air.

Katsuki is none the wiser, and Yuri can’t help but hate him for that, too. Mr. Muse is as self-centered as Victor, but in a different way. He reaches the extreme of barricading himself in from society, unable to hear anything or anyone but himself—a technique of detachment to protect a core well-versed in different iterations of abuse.

Then Victor goes and pries Yuuri open as if extracting an arrow struck through flesh and bone. And the pig just lets him! With the starry-eyed gaze of a follower towards his lord and savior! Yuri can’t bear to comprehend the stupidity of such vulnerability when simply holding the hurt is agonizing already.

But Yuuri is no whore, utterly open and fully submitting to Victor’s honeyed words. He knows what he wants when it doesn’t interfere with his self-imposed emotional chastity belt.

 _“Teach me how to land a quad sal,”_ Katsudon had said to Yuri, determined and seeking guidance in the absence of his drunkard coach, before finally tacking on a shy, _“Please.”_

The request was open for rejection, undemanding towards the targeted expert. Age was no hierarchy, nor was experience. And to Yuri, this all felt both new and not at the same time, like some souvenir lost to archived memories.

In the end, Yuri thinks this: Victor ignored love for twenty plus years and manages to fabricate counterfeits like he was born to do it. Yuuri Katsuki, crybaby pig and half-decent skater, managed to display some shade of eros and win against Yuri at Hasetsu.

At fifteen, surely Yuri can fake whatever the hell agape is.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't take long for Yakov to lacerate that fallacious logic like an assassin specialized in detecting bullshit.

“Are you trying to unconditionally love someone or personally deliver them to Hell!” Yakov scolds rather than asks. His permanent furrow strikes even deeper than usual today—as bad a sign as any. “Focus!”

Yuri is hunched over, head far more strained than his body. “I _am_ focusing! I’m trying my best!”

But “trying” really means grasping at the white noise grains of what used to be his rock. The image of his grandfather remains ever-present, but whatever kept it upright stays lost in the darkness with Yuri so desperate for the light. Never before has he, who roared independence from the womb, taken on a performance so oriented around everything he was not _._

Victor may be a dimwit drunk on puppy love, but he’s the craftiest bastard around when it comes to the ice. For years, Victor has dragged Yuri into his deadly games of pride, a sport the man has championed more often than skating. But now a new player has entered the battle as Victor’s recoil, rendering Yuri’s direct tactics null, so there Yuri suffers in the new territories Victor traverses for his signature tagline.

“Clearly your best isn’t good enough!” Yakov dips his head into his palm and groans.

“How the hell am I supposed to know what agape is,” Yuri grits between teeth, clenched taut like his muscles, “if no one gives a damn enough to teach me?”

Yakov’s eyes dart to two of his other pupils nearby, then scoffs. “Mila is as corrupted as you can get, and Georgi is hopelessly tragic. They wouldn’t know agape if it threw water in their faces.”

Mila shrugs, unoffended, as opposed to Georgi and his thoroughly affronted frown. But Yuri knows what Yakov means.

Unlike the others, Yuri, on the cusp of adolescence and young adulthood, is positioned where agape has the potential to reach its zenith. Beautifully innocent, uncorrupted glory—it's a perfect performance for his current style and image. That is, of course, when overlooking his acetic personality.

“This isn’t something we can teach,” Mila tells him matter-of-factly. “You need to find what agape means to _you_.”

“What brilliant insight. Tell me more things I already fucking know.”

“Just beating a horse that isn’t dead yet. Accomplished Russian skaters seem to have the thickest skulls, don’t you think?”

Mila grins at the growl Yuri directs at her.

“Your interpretation of agape seems too one-dimensional. You think too much. Just go with the flow! Be honest with where that feeling takes you.”

 _Feeling._ Yuri hates that Victor’s nonsense still haunts him. God knows a fucking waterfall was more articulate in explaining agape than that graying asshat.

“Work on feeling later,” Yakov grunts, cutting the exchange in his usual enervated way. “For now, just focus on the adjustments to the jumps in the first half. I want your triples spotless. You can at least do that for yourself.”

Mila hums, skating around in lazy loops. “Ah, but Yakov,” she says, almost successful in her feigned thoughtfulness, “Agape also includes _selfless_ love, right? Maybe if you get Yuri to learn selflessness, he might get close to expressing agape’s distant cousin.”

Yuri opens his mouth. Closes it. Then proceeds to methodically deconstruct the surge of angry emotions from his expression before they overwhelm him.

He says, “I’m taking my break,” and steps off the ice.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, you mean Yuuri?” came Yuko’s static-laced question. “Well, first you have to promise me that this is only between us.”

“I promise,” Yuri says genuinely over the video call.

His tone is blunt where it used to be edged, now tinged with something that causes a clear shift in Yuko’s face. She immediately knows his objective, he can tell, though whether to his relief or chagrin, he doesn't know.

“Imagine someone who has struggled with accepting others since a young age,” she says carefully, “especially after some pretty traumatic events. He internalizes everything, especially his weaknesses. So when people try to approach him, even if they’re honest, he shuts them out.

“He tends to feel like offers of support threaten or undermine the weaknesses he tries to hide, or insult the strengths he’s carefully shielded himself with. But in that self-directed focus is an inability, maybe a fear, of dealing with people. That’s why he’s usually lonely, though he likes to argue that he’s independent.”

“Is Victor the exception, then?”

“Hm, it may seem like that, given his tastes. But I think Yuuri has an even thicker layer of protection towards Victor. He’s the type to be scared of being hurt by people he cares so much about.”

A few beats of silence pass, the weight of each word sinking into Yuri’s cold-beaten skin. The smile Yuko sends him is one of a mother with more than enough maternal intuition for three children, let alone an “adopted” fourth. Her enviably youthful appearance contradicts her wise words.

At last, Yuri finally addresses the elephant. “So how did he beat me?” he asks, desperation unavoidable. “How did I lose?”

“Well, I’ll say this,” she says, ever gentle but firm. "As the only person Yuuri has ever admired so purely, Victor can guide Yuuri in finding his hidden strength. But only Yuuri has the power to unearth that strength himself and to choose what he truly skates for. You’d be surprised at how much digging he’s done.”

To Yuri’s surprise, she’s beaming at him, a motherly pride and amazement streaming palpably through the screen that they fill Yuri’s lungs with the air he forgot to intake. The way Yuko’s expression shines so brightly under the light of her laptop screen bestows Yuri’s chest with a weight that isn’t unpleasant; it feels like a gift, red-cheeked embarrassment, maybe a good-bye bathed in sunlight.

“You have that strength, too, Yuri,” she says, proud. “You just have to find it.”

He realizes that, in his impetuous starvation for the top, he had flown towards the sun with the wax of someone else’s renown instead of his own wings. That was his downfall. Now, the similarities between him and his Japanese rival, Yuri realizes, are in more than just their name.

“Don’t tell me I have to drunkenly hump my coach,” Yuri manages. “Yakov will get arrested and I’ll be thrown in an adoption house. Have pity on me.”

Yuko laughs, big and full of the same life she instilled in her daughters. “I don't think you have to do that. But seeing as Victor is pretty occupied at the moment, might I suggest focusing your energy on someone else worth your while?”

They continue talking until Yuri sees the heated streaks of dawn in the corner of his eyes.

In a stroke of mouth-before-mind, Yuri exclaims, “Tell Katsudon that he better not get hurt or else I’ll go over there and kick his ass myself! We’ll see who’s gonna wipe the dance floor this time!”

Yuko laughs again, as easy as light in the darkness.

_Huh. Someone else worth your while._

 

* * *

 

To curb Yuri’s rigidness and erratic bouts of violence, Yakov coerces him back into ballet. This time, Yuri is under the tutelage of renowned ex-prima ballerina Lilia Baranovskaya, whose face permanently asserts the sharpness of marble and the sourness of a lemon.

Between leg lifts and pirouettes, in the odd stillness of a near-empty ballet studio, Yuri loses himself to what he could salvage from the graves of his mind. Around him are the traces of children from a faded memory, their mixed conversations louder than the classical harmonies in the background. The room is painted by the sun.

In the fore of Yuri’s mind stands a boy who is slightly taller, wider, humorously serious and embarrassingly candid. No name arises, nor does a remotely detailed portrait, but Yuri recollects some distinct features: a directness in contrast to everyone else’s serpentine speech, dark features against the ribbons of daylight, eyes as beautiful as melted gold in the sun and _so_ so radiant—

“Your form slipped. Start again.”

So integrating people into the performance right away might be too advanced. Whatever. Settling for the more abstract instead, Yuri starts again.

The nostalgic warmth of shared giggles and whispered secrets. The shy awareness of too-long looks. The happiness of simple, mutual admiration—of being wanted just as oneself.

No, Yuri has not discovered his agape, nor even a fraction of it. However, as if at the bridge to heaven, he has found the gateway to something new and amazing. With the ease of someone who’s been forced to enter foreign territory before, he steels himself to join the angels.

Only when Lilia finally says something besides a curt direction or observation about slouching does Yuri realize three whole weeks have passed.

“You are improving nicely,” she says, the arch of her eyebrows a smile in itself. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

So he does.

 

* * *

 

Later on, Yuri shows his rink mates and Yakov what he’s learned.

In mind and body, he is a stream with a single, continuous flow. Each jump has the ease of a skipping stone smoothed of its ridges, barely touching the water it treads. His limbs sway and slope like the curves of newborn tree branches, stippled with just-blooming flowers and moving to earth’s sleepy exhales. On the ice, Yuri is the spring in a land of eternal winter.

When the short program reaches its end, Yakov says to Lilia, “You’ve trained him well.”

She confers him a shake of her head. “It’s almost all the boy,” Lilia corrects, eyebrows raised again. “Something has changed in him.”

“Your influence has disciplined him, at least.”

“No.” Another head shake. “He has learned to discipline himself.”

As Mila hassles Lilia for tips on flexibility, Yuri stares at a faraway window. He sees rivulets of light streaking the colorless ice below and giving it color, potential for life.

As his body relaxes, everything suddenly becomes so…gentle.

He tucks away his growing curtain of hair, revealing a face gentler than it’s ever been before.

Then, to no one in particular, he says, “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

With all the praise Yakov’s given him lately (god knows he doesn’t do that enough), Yuri convinces himself into believing he’d cinch Skate Canada. He had the skills and programs and drive to win. But he didn't win.

 _Fuck_ he was excited to show just how qualified he is at the senior level, to show that pig and his keeper how much of a competitor he truly is—to tell the world how much his grandfather’s hard work and sacrifices for Yuri in this near-impossible endeavor aren’t in vein.

But here he is, always in second, a mere a shadow of the illuminated.

What infuriates him the most, however, is not the placement; he swallowed the obstacle of his lagging footsteps behind Victor long ago and reserved it as a challenge he’ll overcome one day. What infuriates Yuri is the fact that he lost to Jean-Jacques _fucking_ Leroy.

JJ, who is devoid of discipline or proper respect for the sport. JJ, whose narcissism siphons the life from flowers and whose arrogance sets Yuri’s fists alight, desperate for contact with the asswipe’s perpetual smirk. JJ, with his bigger, muscular body and free spirit surpassing Yuri’s adolescent slimness and severity.

Yuri lost to the wrong version of Victor Nikiforov, and he hates it.

After the medaling ceremony, Yuri had asked Yakov and Lilia to stay in the lobby, needing privacy in their waiting room to aerate himself of toxic buildup; JJ’s existence in Yuri’s body deserves only a few minutes of ire.

But such relief is temporary. On the way to his coaches, in an act of masochism, Yuri finds himself eavesdropping on a conversation.

“I’m so happy JJ won gold! What a time to be Canadian, huh?”

“I guess. His performances this year are so...JJ.”

“Exactly!”

“But that’s the thing though. They’re all kind of the same. I think that Yuri kid should’ve won gold. His programs were more diverse and felt more meaningful than JJ’s.”

“Oh my _god_ how can you call yourself a Canadian? JJ’s performances were also personal, you know.”

“Ah yes, I remember that one with a self-composed song about himself as king of the world. That’s a ‘personal’ piece if I ever heard one.”

“It’s a song about confidence _. Confidence._ Besides, silver isn’t anything to sneeze that. Didn’t—oh what was his name again…oh yes!—Otabek Altin win silver at Skate America?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, he won gold at the NHK trophy. Even the best don’t win gold all the time, you know.”

“True…Unless you’re Victor Nikiforov!”

Then there is laughter. Suggestions about getting a cab soon. Going home.

Instead of scowling at Victor’s name, Yuri’s lips twitch upwards at the mention of Otabek Altin, who seems to be making a name for himself in Yuri’s life the same way he’s doing it in Kazakhstan: innocuous, but gladly received. Almost uplifting and trangely evocative. In Yuri’s eyes, Otabek is exactly what gold should be.

Yuri feels satisfied somehow. To be considered on the same level as the Hero of Kazakhstan, someone whose name embodies gold itself—no, calling it “like a dream” is too extreme. It’s not the appropriate description to encompass the sweet soda bubble in his chest, or the flickering flush he refuses to acknowledge. The way he crosses and uncrosses and crosses his ankles in the car, he insists, means absolutely nothing.

So maybe Skate Canada doesn’t end on a totally sour note. He’ll probably rage about the silver tomorrow, but for now, he’s feeling surprisingly okay.

 

* * *

 

At the Rostelecom Cup, Yuri’s longer hair makes its own debut. It was Lilia’s suggestion, and she’s never wrong about aesthetics.

Characteristically, his hair still shelters much of his face from the outside world, but the tips now sit just barely above his shoulders, like petals too delicate to touch. The look lends him a more androgynous and ethereal allure, complementing the angelic nature and divine difficulty of his programs.

A week earlier, Mila jokingly called Yuri a second Victor, to which Yakov spat in contempt. Yuri remembered a time he would have enjoyed the comparison.

As the competition breaches full swing, the crescendo of pressure transforms his home turf into one of figure skating’s most notorious theaters of war. To Yuri’s dismay, absent from the audience is the one person he has always called home.

The moment he sees Victor again, Yuri wants to relive the moment he slapped that gaudy asshole’s coffee from his hand at the hotel. He wants to punish Victor for embracing him as if the years of mistakes and wrongdoings were wiped clean, as if there was nothing malicious about piquing and decimating Yuri’s desire for Victor to return.

_(—to the rink—)_

He hates seeing Victor so dependent on someone else, letting his Japanese pig cling to him in the latter’s own selfishness.

_(—to the competition—)_

Each glance Victor takes at Yuuri, as if seeing a lover for the first time, becomes another hand strangling the air from Yuri’s lungs.

_(—to Russia—)_

The asshole talks as if he’s still the top skater in Russia in the same remarkably egotistical way.

_(—to Yakov—)_

How dare they do this in his country, patronizing Yuri with their sugary words and ugly exclamations of “good luck,” as if so overfilled with their exclusive happiness that they deign to treat Yuri like a fucking charity that needs the remainder.

_(—to me—)_

It’s disgusting, seeing someone who was once a star, above all of mankind, now kneeling on the ground, kissing the feet of the disgraced.

 _I’m angry_ , Yuri thinks coldly, precisely, as he skates away from his worried coaches. Everything shows on his face, he knows.

When the music starts, he becomes aware of the wrath trickling into his agape, turning what should be delicate arm movements into sharp, whip-like lashes. His mind refuses to coordinate with his body— _fuck_ Yakov’s going to kill him for bombing that triple axel—in rejection of the Victor that resides in the performance. _I’m angry_ , he thinks again.

This isn’t the first time he’s entered a performance angry, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. But now there are more safe spaces within himself, more sources of something he can’t describe. Perhaps, collectively, this is what love is.

Vignettes dart through his mind— _quad sal, triple toe loop; nice height—_ in traces of faces and voices and touches— _quad toe loop; fix your center—_ that begin to drift alongside him, cheering for and guiding him through his performance like his own private audience.

He can feel the minuscule tears in his muscles and the dizziness he thought he outgrew awakening from hibernation. Everything becomes numb and at the brink of pain.

As the real world dissipates, the curtains fall, and Yuri almost lets go.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

When Yuri finishes the routine, gone is the perfection he so religiously tattooed on his tongue. Only one thing in his mind remains: a soft, golden light streaming into a large room.

He doesn’t quite know why this has become the point A to his point B’s, but he realizes that it’s the only light capable of keeping him warm in this frigid world.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the sun rises with the tentativeness of a held breath, and yet “elated” is too diluted a word to describe Yuri at the thought of performing in front of his grandfather.

As he’s stretching, anticipating the call to the rink, he can still taste the savor of his grandfather’s pirozhkies, deliciously adorned with the katsudon flavors he so missed. But there’s another strange, unexpected warmth that has snuck into Yuri’s heart, right beside where his grandfather sits.

Behind the scenes, watching Otabek’s performances has turned into a guilty pleasure Yuri refuses to admit is actually a thing. (“ _Finally_ someone else who thinks Otabek is super hot.” “Shut up, old hag!”)

Yuri admires everything about Otabek, honestly. His sweeping limbs in all their no-frills power. His approach to skating with unbridled dedication, a unique love for figure skating and for a home and family Otabek clearly cares for. The guy is just so genuine and beautiful in ways that escape everything Yuri has ever learned about figure skating.

There is no smoke, no mirrors. There is no game, no lies, no spotlight to chase after. Only love, expressed with the simple ease of breathing.

_“—at only 17, Altin is quickly putting Kazakhstan on the figure skating map! He just destroyed his country’s long-held record in men’s skating with an astounding—”_

Otabek’s free skate from 2015 Kazakhstani Figure Skating Championships is one of Yuri’s favorites. He especially likes the way the fan-recorded video zooms in on Otabek’s face after the news of the broken record.

Yuri doesn't miss the pleased gleam in Otabek’s deeply-colored eyes. The small, accomplished fist pump. The handsomest tilt of a smile Yuri has ever seen.

Otabek’s strength breaks through more barriers than just Yuri’s phone screen. All Yuri does is wait for the next video to load, ready to be swallowed whole all over again.

 

* * *

 

Surely, Yuri won with that performance. It was perfect. _Flawless_. There is no conceivable way he won’t win gold.

He’d been planning these changes since Canada. At the time, he saw red when he realized JJ’s sequence had the obvious upper hand in points, and Yakov refusing to alter the free program made Yuri’s anger fester even hotter. (“Ever considered anger management classes?” “Ever consider shutting up, hag?”)

Always underestimating his abilities, always believing he’s too young or too weak to handle the challenge—that’s what he hates the most.

But there and then, Russia’s ice tiger Yuri Plisetsky shoved a middle finger in the face of everyone who thought age and size defined a male skater’s career and capabilities, defined his chances for success and recognition.

In that moment, the heavens are raining lights, deafening cheers, a rainbow of fan-made gifts. He can see his grandfather in the stands, hands clapping firmly with a smile that mirrors one onto Yuri’s face. He can feel the pride felt in every citizen watching him bow over and over and over again.

He allows himself a mental pat on the back. Staring into the standing crowd, Yuri thinks, _I hope I made you proud._

His head is still spinning by the time he reaches the Kiss and Cry; he’s so numb that Yakov’s and Lilia’s embraces feel like impressions. Their words are garbled against the adrenaline pulsing through his body.

People start screaming and Yuri finally wills his eyes to _fucking focus you dumbshit_ on the score. When he does, his mind blanks on the only three words he’d been driving himself insane over for years:

 _Grand Prix Final_.

“Fucking hell—”

Before his mind can catch up, Yuri’s body is already searching for Katsudon. With his mouth alight, Yuri’s words are a gun cocked and ready to assert just how much of a threat he really is to Japan’s top skater.

“Yuuri!” he shouts, tone different than intended and unquenchable grin on his face, but he is too late.

The dark-haired fallen angel, abandoned by his god, is already on the ice, gliding around in loops as the judges reorganize themselves for the next free skate.

Watching Yuuri move like that, expression a reflection of his slumped shoulders, passion blotted from his eyes—a familiar, ugly taste coats Yuri’s tongue. Now that Yuri actually knows him, the bitterness is even more potent than the first time Yuri saw Katsudon sabotage himself.

It's pathetic, seeing how much Victor’s absence has drained Yuuri. Victor didn't waltz into world renown by relying on others; he is who he is precisely because of his loneliness. Strength in independence is the very foundation of figure skating, and Victor Nikiforov is no skater, let alone coach, if he can't teach something so fundamental.

At last, Yuri is watching Yuuri’s current free skate live, but it physically hurts to see such beautiful music ruined by a flimsy show of cowardice.

And yet—

 _Warm sunlight._ _Empty ballet room._ _Golden, lopsided, young smiles._

There's just something _there_  in Yuuri’s performance, an unfathomable feeling of presence that weighs people down in their seats, understanding. Something changes in Yuri as he watches from the Kiss and Cry. By some unearthly force, he feels it.

Yuri feels his entire body warm spontaneously, as if Yuuri’s performance suddenly bathes the stadium in this dumb, inexplicable feeling, but even Yuri can feel it and its flawed execution permeating through his skin, wrapping his body in a newfound sensation he didn't know he was capable of experiencing.

Everything is there, flooding the stadium without restraint. The heaving cries and the bubbly laughter. The blinding anger and the rediscovered courage. The sweet rarity of a pure, beautiful connection and the bittersweet reality of a too-long good-bye.

The clumsy, newfound understanding. The heart, the soul. The simple admiration for someone as they are. _God_ , the simple happiness of being loved just as oneself.

Yuri—he knows it all, and to realize it in the face of a half-assed free skate by some glass house of a pig leaves him a mess of speechless confusion and unsaid confessions.

His heart continues beating, faster and faster as the performance reaches its patchy, whole-hearted climax. He can feel his heart clench like a fist, closing around something it almost catches, but cannot.

Yuri sees Yakov soften uncharacteristically. “I wonder,” he says, shocking Yuri with the gentleness in his voice, “what it would look like with Vitya here.” Clearly Mila is rubbing off on him too much.

After the applause, Lilia speaks, already surrendered to the memories of her past. “Having someone you truly admire—someone you truly _love—_ really makes the difference. And if they feel the same? Oh, what an act of fate that must be.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the end of the Rostelecom Cup. On his way from the bathroom, Yuri sees JJ again.

More specifically, he sees JJ holding his girlfriend as physically close to himself as possible. JJ’s eyes are visibly crinkled and there’s a subdued, secretive smile directed solely at the world of a woman in his arms. Around her neck is the gold medal.

“Congratulations,” she says, giddy and proud all the way to her fingertips caressing his cheeks. “You did it.”

“ _We_ did it,” he corrects before swooping in to replace the rebuttal on her lips with his. After separating, he continues, “I couldn't be myself in that rink without you.”

Yuri quickly flees the immediate vicinity, feeling both embarrassingly pink and absolutely, terribly cold. He may even feel a bit guilty for intruding on something as personal as that.

Right now, he wants to say he's disgusted, angry, pissed off—every word he's ever used to bandage himself together and cover the ghosts he’s been trying to ignore.

But now he's just…empty _._

 

* * *

 

The first time Yuri sees Otabek Altin this close in person, he’s kind of stunned, to say the least.

It’s as if Yuri is finally coming to terms with Otabek’s existence, with the true intensity of that tanned complexion, those dark eyes, the utter sureness set in such firm posture. Given, Otabek is a little shorter up close, but he still makes everything else in their luxurious hotel turn two shades duller.

Otabek is real and _right fucking there_ and, in only a couple days, will be competing against Yuri in the Grand Prix Final. It really does sound surreal.

Gone is the phone and television screen. There are no more blotchy newspapers covered in finger-shaped food stains, or the saccharine words of commentators. The only thing separating the them now are about a dozen paces Yuri’s legs refuse to take.

As he watches Otabek loiter in the lobby, Yuri mentally tells himself _he’s just another competitor_ over and over like a record trying to break itself, but even he can’t bullshit his way into thinking that. The only competitor here is his heart against his mind.

This is nothing like seeing Victor, whom Yuri fully acknowledges in all of Victor’ Nikiforov’s extravagance. He’s watched Victor grow up more than Victor has watched Yuri, whether or not the dolt would ever agree.

But Otabek is so different and real. Very wretchedly real. In all his extraordinarily regal handsomeness.

Only when Yuri returns to reality does he realize he’d been staring at Otabek, blatantly so, and now Otabek is staring back.

Without thinking, he calls out, “What’s with you, asshole?”

Yuri mentally curses himself with appalling complexity. Of course, the only operational thing left in his body is muscle memory, which means using _that_ tone and using _those_ words. He feels so young and small and inexperienced again, unable to control his body like a bird expected to fly upon hatching.

But Otabek looks at him even more squarely, almost curiously, and says nothing for a moment. Those dark eyes of his travel across Yuri’s face, searching for something, or perhaps familiarizing himself with Yuri’s features.

Yuri can’t help but redden. He would feel more confused if his heartbeat wasn’t assaulting his eardrums so much.

“What?” escapes his mouth. Yuri swears at himself tenfold.

Surely that’s the last straw. Normally, people are put off by the first time Yuri opens his mouth. Hardly anyone stays for the second.

Instead, Otabek offers, of all things, a smile. _A smile._ One so subtle and gentle that it’s nearly unnoticeable. But after studying Otabek for as long as he has, Yuri sees the smile as bright as daylight and as warm as a memory.

Otabek nods in good-bye, steadying his gaze on Yuri a few seconds more, before turning around and exiting the hotel. Yuri feels almost wistful watching Otabek go.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Yuri wonders if he is, by some godly hand, the character of some television show because there’s no other way he’d find himself in absurd situations this often.

One moment, he’s window-shopping on the streets of Barcelona, airing the cobwebs in his lungs and finally enjoying the peace of quiet alone-time. Next moment, he’s shoved himself behind a cobbled wall in a spectacularly cliché attempt to hide himself from a pack of ravenous hunters disguised as girls.

But Yuri’s life has never been one to settle for such low-level entertainment. More is more, as one says.

So when Otabek Altin shows up like some knight in shining armor, nobly sat across a stupid (read: superbly cool) motorcycle with the gorgeous sunset in the background (as if his life wasn't enough of a soap opera), Yuri becomes even more convinced that none of this is real. All that’s missing is the churchly choir music.

Otabek pauses, regards Yuri again with the same curiosity he showed Yuri in the hotel, before tossing over a helmet. “Get on.”

Yuri’s eyes widen. “What?”

In the face of approaching, high-pitched screeches, Otabek’s gaze sparkles. He asks, “Are you coming or what?”

Yuri is taken aback at the severe absence of hesitation in the offer. And that’s exactly what it is: an offer. A helmet may have landed in Yuri’s hands, but there is no force in Otabek’s expression, just the simple freedom of choice.

Yuri wordlessly straps on the helmet and walks towards Otabek, pulled by an invisible and very compelling chain. Distant screams turn into white noise. Yuri loses all sense of grace upon straddling the vehicle, and the clumsiness, considering that he's Yuri fucking Plisetsky, is more than telling.

Everything happens in a blur after that. It’s really the only way Yuri can process how overwhelming the past few hours are.

He never expected to be exploring Barcelona on a motorcycle, flush against the heat of Otabek Altin’s back, arms around Otabek’s trim and muscled waist with a nervous grip Otabek urges tighter. If Otabek intended to kidnap Yuri and throw his body into the ocean, Yuri wouldn’t have even a vestige of strength to resist, not with the heady mixture of cologne and skin flooding every crevice of his skull.

The back of Otabek’s neck fills Yuri’s vision to the brim with a desire Yuri didn’t know himself capable of. He’s lost count of how many times his eyes have traced the meticulous hairline in front of him.

He can register every shift of muscle, no matter how slight, against the tight curl of his own torso. Protection, devotion, modesty—all these words are inadequate in describing the aura ebbing off Otabek’s body in gentle waves. At some point, Yuri gives in and rests a cheek against Otabek’s shoulder blade.

All his life, Yuri spent each waking hour trying to prove his worth. Every other want or problem proved minuscule in the face of the dream that gave his life meaning. The cold is his home, but _god_ this simple, unadulterated warmth is so addicting.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s in a city so laughably polar to St. Petersburg or Moscow that none of what he thinks is right matters right now. Maybe it’s the sheets of crisp, spiced air blowing past, or the impossibly fast reel of colorful blotches and carefree faces around him. Nothing about this feels like home. This feels like the dangerous excitement of something new, something all his own.

This feels like an adventure.

 

* * *

 

Stupid is not the first word Yuri would use to describe himself. It’s easily one of the last. But in times like this, it’s probably the most appropriate adjective he could think of.

“Really? I don’t remember that!” He hopes he doesn’t sound as childish as he feels.

Otabek shrugs. “I wouldn’t expect you to. At the time, I was in my first year in the junior division. I couldn’t keep up with the Russian junior skaters, so I was put in the novice class. That’s when I met you.”

In retrospect, it makes sense that the clumsy bear cub of a child back then was Otabek. The resemblance now seems as clear as spring water. The sincerity Yuri so missed is still there, but matured around unchanged molten eyes and sun-warmed skin. Seeing Otabek like this, it feels like staring at the very personification of summer.

Otabek sighs as he looks at the city below him, though less in admiration for the view and more so in search of something to say. Yuri can't stop staring at the colored tints of sky brushed into Otabek’s hair.

Then, with steady, paralyzing reverence, Otabek says, “Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.”

It’s bewildering how much only a few words can feel like being struck by lightning. Never before has Yuri’s ribcage been too small for his ready-to-burst heart as it is now.

“A soldier?” Yuri swallows. “Me?”

They’re more than just a few words, knowing who he’s talking to. Yuri, a soldier? No. It’s a declaration of vitality—of the strength and persistence Otabek saw in Yuri years ago. It’s recognition of the selflessness unseen under young, misguided selfishness. Of the unconditional giving and love Yuri has been capable of all along.

No one’s ever thought of Yuri like that before.

“Why did you talk to me?” Yuri asks. Whether or not he means back then or now, he doesn’t know. Just the idea of Otabek talking to him of his own volition is staggering.

“I always thought we were alike.” Otabek turns to look at him and _fuck_ Yuri doesn’t know how many more of those looks he can handle. “That’s all.”

In Yuri’s head, the scene looks strange. There he is, angled like fine Venetian architecture and cut sharp like marble. Then there is Otabek, built from concrete and steel with his densely-packed strength and sincerity. Yuri doesn’t understand how Otabek can possibly glean any similarities between them.

And yet there they are, atop the Park Güell, with the breathtaking landscape of Barcelona below them and ives intimately knotted by a single, simple memory.

“Are you going to become friends with me or not?”

For several beats, Yuri is shocked again to silence, staring like the idiot he is at Otabek’s outstretched hand. All his senses feel incredibly acute, except he isn’t zooming through the streets on a motorcycle anymore; this time, he is unmoving, unable to let his mind lose itself to rush upon rush. Otabek’s hand, an offering once more, doesn’t falter.

Yuri has never been so unsure in his life. This kind of control is more fragile than what he’s used to. In Otabek’s palm lies the weight of another person Yuri realizes he actually admires and cares about without the puppets and strings. In this offering lies the weight of a friendship he’s desired for so long but shoved aside many years ago.

Yuri glances up at Otabek’s face. That heart-trembling smile is there.

It takes all his willpower to move his hand forward, placing it in Otabek’s. The heat of the touch surges through Yuri’s arm so quickly, he’s afraid his heart might catch on fire.

He sees Otabek’s smile widen further, reaching those annoyingly captivating eyes. And Yuri, too, smiles in a way he’s never smiled before.

 

* * *

 

After some shopping, they are seated in a hole-in-the-wall café. It’s a private, intimate setting. Luckily, Otabek’s Spanish is proficient enough for them to manage a few orders from their dazed waitress.

Otabek kindly answers Yuri’s plethora questions. He reveals that he has a younger sister, loves spicy food to a fault, and is trying to learn Spanish because he finds the construction of the language fascinating. He admits that he’s a little jealous of how accomplished Yuri is at his age, but never expected anything less from the fiery blond he met at Yakov’s camp.

The favor is returned with Otabek’s own questions, though at some point the questions are forgotten as Otabek lets Yuri bulldoze through the conversation. Yuri talks about his recent affinity for Japanese cuisine and fashion, complains for several minutes about Victor, and laughs for several more minutes at Otabek’s attempts at humor. Yuri admits that he likes watching videos of Otabek’s routines, to which Otabek appears almost embarrassed.

“I’m the same,” Otabek replies, easy despite his slight rosiness. “No one really believed in me when I was younger, so my coach had me stay in junior division for a while. But when I watch you, I feel…inspired, I guess is the word. The way you fight for your place no matter what people say.”

Otabek narrows his eyes at Yuri, both in challenge and intrigue.

“I can never get over the way your hair looks like spun gold against the white of the ice.” He chuckles quietly, as if astounded by his own words. “You look almost like a fairytale when you skate.”

At that, Yuri says nothing more.

As Yuri watches Otabek take a sip from his drink, Yuri lets himself follow the planes of Otabek’s face, accented by the café’s fairy lights and the glow of the street lamps outside. Under the table, his foot accidentally bumps against Otabek’s, though neither pulls away.

Yuri’s thoughts runs a thousand and one kilometers an hour. He thinks of what he could lose in being so uncharacteristically accommodating. He thinks of the short-term and long-term benefits, of the potential malice behind Otabek’s actions. Watering the growing bud of whatever “this” is could damage Yuri’s carefully-sustained image, or instill seeds in his mind that could ruin his performances.

Otabek appears quizzical, perhaps amused in the quirk of his eyebrows. “Your head will hurt with how deep you must be in thought.”

Yuri snorts, lightly kicking Otabek under the table. “I've got a lot to think about.”

Sighing, he submits to his inability to calculate so excessively. Instead, Yuri settles on asking, “You ready to win silver tomorrow?”

“You wish,” Otabek huffs, grinning. “My name should tell you otherwise.”

Yuri laughs, full and large and more content than he’s been in a very, very long time.

 

* * *

 

That night at dinner, when Yuuri and Victor (or rather Phichit) announce their apparent engagement-marriage thing, Yuri makes sure to pull his usual disgusted face. The news is certainly gross, but not wholly surprising. Even the matching gold rings are as tacky as you’d expect.

But, behind the staccato words and heavy crimson blush on his competitor’s face, Yuri sees the almost triumphant smile gracing the Japanese skater’s timid, ugly mug. Yuuri doesn’t scramble to hide his ring, nor does he banish his ring-clad hand to his lap for the rest of the dinner. In fact, Yuuri’s exclusive use of that very hand to hold his drink, even after the shock dies down, is clearly with purpose.

“Hell yeah my brother’s the one who popped the question, Minako-sensei!”

“Are you serious? Have you seen those _rings?_ Yuuri doesn’t even have the balls to buy me a proper birthday present, let alone toss an arm and a leg for those things!”

“One: you aren’t Victor _freakin’_ Nikiforov. Two: Victor’s the one who started bragging about the rings! Only people who were proposed to do that!”

“Hey, we’re talking about ‘Victor freakin’ Nikiforov’ here, you know he’d totally brag about stuff he bought Yuuri—”

For a long, dumb moment, Yuri sits there, processing the eureka revelation he eventually comes to.

Mari was right: Yuuri wasn’t taken. _Victor_ was.

Looking at Yuuri and Victor now, at the way they lean into each other as if captured by each other’s gravity, Yuri still wonders where that unwavering faith in Victor comes from. Yuri thinks Victor has earned his share of admiration, fame, and money, but a lifetime of trust? Surely not.

“Hey.” A hand rests on Yuri’s shoulder with a weight he has already grown accustomed to. “Are you okay?” Otabek looks at him so strangely, like he’s genuinely concerned, and god what is happening to Yuri?

Perhaps this is what Victor’s been talking about ever since he and Yuri crashed Hasetsu with the ignorance and indulgence of Russian athletic royalty, severely deprived of anything akin to childhoods and genuine affection. Victor still had no idea what he spoke of then, thrusting empty phrases into Yuri’s ears in the hope of satisfying his famished protégé.

But they both know now that this is the “feeling” Victor has been talking about all along, and, while Victor probably found it in the form of Yuuri Katsuki, it’s always been beside Yuri like a phantom limb.

Grandpa, Yuko, Yakov, Lilia, perhaps Mila and Georgy, Yuuri Katsuki, even Victor if Yuri’s feeling particularly generous, and now Otabek. Hell, this is probably as agape as it gets.

Yuri glances briefly at Katsuki, who exchanges smiles with Victor like tomorrow is the end of the world. Yuuri’s eyes are easy with love, completely natural and soft and clumsy in their tenderness. The contrast of just sitting beside Victor’s sharp lines and grandeur magnifies the couple’s intimacy.

From the Hasetsu competition to the Rostelecom Cup, Yuuri has never looked prouder of himself than he does then. Everything about him is beautiful, almost dazzlingly so, in spite of the cheap lighting and questionable company.

“Yeah,” Yuri answers, maybe fondly, before looking at Otabek. “I’m fine.”

Then, in an interruption of thoughts comes something so stupidly, jarringly Victor: “Of course, we’re not getting married,” he says, chortling with beer in hand, “until Yuuri wins a gold medal. Right, Yuuri?”

The silence is long enough to mark a shift in mood so clear even someone as dumb as Victor detects it.

They’re back to playing this game of theirs– no, it never ended to begin with, Yuri realizes. In the midst of preconceived celebration and hope, Yuri’s world shifts back into its rightful place. His blood pressure shoots up in an untapped form of anger.

His anger is not in disgust. Not in retaliation or annoyance or petulance.

This time, every tendril of accumulated anger resting in even the oldest corners of Yuri’s mind culminate all because of disappointment. Thick and sickly _disappointment_ in Victor’s flimsy, disrespectful words.

 

* * *

 

“Victor Nikiforov is dead.”

The dusty imprint of Yuri’s boot lingers after he drops his leg. When Victor turns around, he is hauntingly silent. He exudes his distinctive, icy beauty with an expression as aggravatingly enigmatic as he is.

Seeing Victor like this, Yuri seethes. Blood boils to the top of his head. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep his voice level still, to not punch that million-dollar face staring so indifferently until knuckle hits skull. He wants to rip Victor’s ring finger from his well-kept hands and throw it into the sea.

“Why do you look so happy to be looking after that damn pig?” Yuri asks, incensed.

“Do you want to compete against me?” The words are pristine, commanding, and cut. Yuri senses, rather than sees, the corner of Victor’s mouth twitch.

“Bullshit. We’ve been playing this game for a long time already, you selfish old man.”

Victor’s smile evolves more fully. The bastard even lets his head tilt slightly in a false display of innocence.

“Don’t be so full of yourself,” Yuri continues, deliberate and punctuated. His eyebrows knit into rigid and telling lines. “Not all skaters look up to you.” _Not anymore._

In a spike of fear, Yuri does nothing as Victor quickly closes the distance between them, grabs Yuri’s face in a single hand, and lifts—hard. The hazy and cold light of the seaside sunrise is obscured by Victor’s sudden height. The grip is frighteningly tight and as stationary as Victor’s expression. He looks tired, almost irate. Yuri hasn’t seen Victor visibly angry in ages.

But what _right_ does Victor Nikiforov have to be angry? When the last two decades of skating have lapped at his coattails? When his fiancé has dedicated his life to Victor and, in less than a heartbeat, would give everything up for Victor?

Out of all the things Victor has earned, Yuuri’s heart is not one of them, Yuri decides. Not when Victor has a penchant for charming people to love him, only to abandon them with as much warning as a fire alarm.

At that, Yuri’s control breaks. Words come out like poison and petulant indignation. “The ring you got from that pig is _garbage_ ,” he chokes out. “I’ll win just to prove how incompetent his owner is.”

Victor smirks, squeezing Yuri’s face even tighter. Neither says anything after that, simply staring each other down as the gritty, salted wind whips through their hair. Up close, the high color of Victor’s wind-bitten cheeks is evident, and the elegant shallows of smile lines are clearer, no longer hidden behind rink lights or makeup. Victor’s eyes soothe, somehow, in the face of Yuri’s biting confessions—because that’s what they are, aren’t they?—causing something to jump in Yuri’s chest.

This is where they’ve ended up, Yuri thinks bitterly: Russia’s Living Legend, expiring before his due date, and Russia’s Ice Tiger, still chasing tales.

“Let go of me,” Yuri says, pushing Victor’s hand away and feeling the ground beneath his feet again.

Yuri considers the notion that this is how it’s meant to be.

Nothing feels more normal than clashing against Victor, he who is always testing, challenging, setting impossibly high standards then breaking them in a never-ending cycle of fighting for the top. He can’t imagine a life without Victor Nikiforov the Living Legend and what he stood for in the skating world.

But maybe Yuri can still imagine a life with Victor Nikiforov—manchild with too much money on his hands, a collection of obnoxious habits and lack of self restraint, and now the lover of someone close to Yuri’s heart.

As Yuri watches Victor return to contemplating the seaside, looking older and content, maybe the “death” of Victor Nikiforov is something Victor is coming to terms with, too. Yuri always thought Victor was the happiest man alive, given all his achievements and lifestyle. He guesses Victor, with Yuuri’s help, is only now working towards that happiness.

The golden light from the peeking sun stains Victor’s pale skin, lending him the life Yuri only realizes Victor’s never had until then. Yuri can easily imagine Yuuri there, hand in Victor’s, doing the same thing.

“This place reminds me of Hasetsu’s ocean,” Yuri says. It’s too early for this sentimental shit, though the way Victor smiles at the comparison makes waking up that early marginally worth it.

Yuri knows that smile well. A relic of the past, it’s almost a shock to see it again.

Victor would give Yuri that smile whenever they’d share a meal together, or after playing tag in the snow until they fell, tangled and breathless. The first time Victor gave him that smile, Yuri declared Victor his hero. It’s only later Yuri learns that Victor never heard those words before then.

Victor's smile widens and, after a pause, quietly says, “I thought that, too."

And so ends the life of the magnificent, the mighty, and the tragic Living Legend of Russia, Victor Nikiforov.

 

* * *

 

(“What do you think accounts for Yuri Plisetsky’s amazing successes at such a young age?”

Without fail, Lila Baranovskaya answers with the same answer.

“I believe he has found an entrance to ‘love’ through his many encounters with others. Because people exude the most light when they seek to understand the love that sustains them.”)

* * *

 

It’s strange, allowing his mind to drift while skating. Yuri considers himself pretty diligent, if not scarily meticulous, when it comes to controlling his mind during a performance.

Letting go wasn’t so bad, though. Yuri could still sense the detailed movement of his limbs, the flutter and fall of his jumps, the changing angles of his body’s axes. Nothing felt unfamiliar, and yet he’s never felt so simultaneously connected and disconnected to the performance before.

By the time he joins Lilia and Yakov at the Kiss and Cry, Yuri remembers only fragments:

The day Mila helped him with positioning his arms, and the time Lilia first styled his hair.

His grandfather’s warm hand on his head, and Yuko’s smiling face.

A snippet of Yuuri and Victor skating in Hasetsu, and Otabek’s breathtaking eyes in golden sunlight.

When the score for his short program comes up, Yuri is the last to notice. It doesn’t happen in slow motion like in the movies. He doesn’t break down crying at the realization he’d broken Victor’s world record.

But you can fucking bet that, by the time Yakov has Yuri on his shoulders like almost-father and son, Yuri doesn’t hesitate in letting out the happiest, most accomplished roar he could muster. His chest is far too small to contain just how on top of the world he really is.

Years. It’s taken years and _years_ of eating, living, and breathing figure skating, scratching at the stone intestines of a well so infinitely deep before seeing even a streak of light. To finally break free from the comparisons, the could’ve-should’ve-would’ves of this path in life—to finally break free from all the goddamned fairy tales.

It's incomparable.

“That’s my Yuratchka!”

“I did it!” he yells so loudly, even the gods can hear.

 _I really did it_.

 

* * *

 

When he leaves the Kiss and Cry (he’s had enough of Chris’ ass to warrant skipping out), Yuri finds Otabek warming up backstage. He looks handsome, stretching in his performance clothes.

Now, whatever happens next obviously does so in slow motion this time because the universe hates him and wants him to suffer. His capacity for regret expands very quickly in the midst of throwing himself into Otabek’s unsuspecting but open arms. He flushes at the idea of his friend expecting this to happen.

Yuri is as quick to jump away as he was jumping into Otabek. “I-I’m sorry. I just– I’m done with my short program. Wanted to wish you good luck or whatever.” He turns away at the funny look Otabek gives him. “D-Davai,” he adds awkwardly.

There is a beat of comfortable silence that passes between them, letting Yuri’s heated embarrassment fizzle away. The surrounding busyness maneuvers around them like flood water around a solid island of rock.

Then Otabek extends his hand, palm up, and Yuri is confused. “Your hand,” he says.

Still confused, Yuri slowly obliges, pressing the entirety of his hand on top of Otabek’s. His breathing slows. “What are you—”

Otabek lays his other hand on top of Yuri’s, smiling softly as he does it. If Yuri notices the blush on Otabek’s face, he doesn’t mention it.  “Congratulations on your performance and on breaking Victor's record. And thank you for your words. I will carry them with me in the hope my performance will be half as beautiful as yours.” Otabek squeezes Yuri’s hand. “Davai.”

Lord, even if Yuri doesn’t win gold this GPF, surely this is what it’s like.

 

* * *

 

“For now, I’ll time my return to the Russian Nationals.”

If Victor’s absurd conditions for his marriage to Yuri were a slap to the face, Victor’s words now are a sharp stab in the chest.

Against his better judgment, Yuri dashes towards Victor with the desperation of an infant. “Hey,” the fear in his voice is unrestrained and full, “does that mean Katsudon’s retiring?”

Victor gives him the cold smile Yuri’s always hated. Victor uses it when he breaches his pain threshold, but still expects people not to worry. “That’s his decision to make,” Victor replies tightly, still smiling, “after the Grand Prix Final is over.”

The hand Yuri has buried in Victor’s shirt is shaking wildly, as if he’s lost control of it. He knows his face has fallen in anguish. His bones feel like glass. Everything Yuri knows about Yuuri Katsuki runs like a paper kaleidoscope in his mind and Yuri is all too desperate to keep it from turning to ash.

“No way,” Yuri pushes out. “You’re lying. You’re always lying.”

“Not this time,” Victor murmurs before pulling Yuri into his chest.

They stay like that for a few long moments, Victor clinging onto Yuri like his life depends on it. Yuri doesn’t move, afraid he’ll break Victor, whose tears Yuri can feel soaking into his jacket. Then, in a single word, Victor finally rips Yuri apart:

“Please.”

The tone, the implications, the _hurt_ in Victor’s voice are all things Yuri has never known before.

It is then Yuri grasps just how much he truly looks up to Yuuri Katsuki, and how much the Japanese skater has made a home in not only Yuri’s life, but also in every other life Yuuri has touched with his ability to simply love and be loved _._ Yuri's heart aches at the thought of never seeing Yuuri again on the ice.

 _No_ , he tells himself. _Screw you all. Fuck if I’m going to let that pig leave so easily._

 

* * *

 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. He’s never skated so hard in his life, not to the point that his lungs feel burned from the inside out, or that he’s on his knees fucking crying on international broadcast. But there he is, curled into himself on the cool ice, dizzy and overheated and terrifyingly consumed.

He feels so fucking sick—sick of skating, sick of people, sick of himself. Disappointment tastes as disgusting and shameful as he remembers it, but a million times worse now.

Behind the uproar of applause and fan gifts, Yuri feels people slipping away: his parents when he was a child, Victor after giving himself to Yuuri, and now Katsudon after Yuri’s potentially lacking performance. Screw winning gold, all Yuri wants is for Yuuri to _stay_.

To stay and invite Yuri for katsudon. Go shopping with Yuri and Victor in the streets of Harajuku. Skate together without the pressure of competition. Skate the perfect performance that Yuri’s yearned to see since last year’s GPF. Jesus, is that so hard? Why does he always lose people that matter to him?

He knows that he’s being selfish. God, he fucking knows it and he hates it. He’s let something else crawl into his heart and eat him alive, and he should have known better.

Yuri Plisetsky forces himself to stand, unable to let anyone see him like this any longer. He wobbles a little as he rediscovers balance, pauses for a breath, then bows.

It feels like the world was on his shoulders, and it broke him.

 

* * *

 

Or maybe it didn’t. Probably broke him just a little.

The reality of the results was anticlimactic at best. Sure, Yuri won gold and Yuuri silver (and JJ still manages a bronze of _fucking_ course), but only by a hair of a margin, so it’s not even that satisfying. Yuri is also as salty as you’d expect over Katsudon breaking Victor’s record in the free skate. The dolt always has to steal the attention in the end.

It’s right before dawn in St. Petersburg when Yuri waits with Yakov in the airport for Victor’s flight to land. The uncertainty of Yuuri’s fate still lingers like a scar.

As far as Yuri knows, Victor and Yuuri have returned to codependency and, despite their “delayed marriage,” stay behind in Barcelona to honeymoon their brains out. Yuri definitely won’t be hearing from them in a while, and it drives him up against a fucking wall because Victor better show Yuri some gratitude for winning that goddamn gold.

Life hit its slowest with the high of the GPF worn off. It’s no fun being the face of Russia’s athletes when Victor and Yuuri’s relationship hasn’t stopped being a trending topic since The Kiss. High-profile, attention-seeking twats.

Yuuri, at least, has enough respect to send Yuri photos once in a while. There's that selfie of him and Victor sharing ice cream after a shopping spree. Then a photo of Victor holding a ridiculous pose in the Gothic Quarter. Multiple shots of any cat they come across.

Yuri can’t help but smile at the most recent one Yuuri sent: him and Victor holding hands atop the Park Güell, sunset drawing a glowing edge to their puzzle-piece silhouettes. Yuri almost feels sorry for the person they asked to take the photo.

“Plane just landed,” Yakov grumbles beside him, and for a second Yuri contemplates why he’s here.

Not airport-here, but universe-here. In a lifetime so defined by figure skating and the need for validation, his life's purpose seems pretty muddy. He’ll retire before he’s 30, so by then his life will probably be over. His broken records will be broken over and over again by younger, stronger, and hungrier generations of skaters. How Yuri has contributed to the net happiness of humanity, he can’t say.

“Yuri!”  _That doesn’t sound like Victor—_

He feels a body collide into his, and the size and height certainly feel like Victor. Maybe he heard someone else calling for a different Yuri.

But over Victor’s shoulder, Yuri sees a tired, greasy mop of dark hair and familiar set of glasses. Yuri sees the Hastetsu smile lines and the dark circles, the sweetly honest smile and gentle blush that accompanied a silver medal at the Grand Prix Final only a week ago.

The moment Victor lets go, in an overwhelming surge of relief and joy and _holy shit Yuuri’s here,_ Yuri trips over himself in his rush to embrace Yuuri Katsuki who is there in front of him and totally real in Yuri’s arms.

Victor’s laugh rings like church bells. “Someone’s a little excited to see you.”

“Are you talking about me or Yurio?” Yuuri chuckles, bringing Yuri closer.

“You would be after being stuck with Victor for so long,” Yuri mumbles, embarrassed out of his mind. There are fireworks in his head and his tongue feels like he's eaten pop-rocks. He’ll definitely regret this in a couple hours, but fuck it, there are some things he's just gotta swallow his pride for.

“Okay, cut the sap.” Yakov’s voice is a strange mixture of irritation and fondness only he can manage. “We start training again in three days, so I need you two settled in as soon as possible.”

Yuri separates from Yuuri, clearly confused.

“You’re no fun at all, Yakov,” whines Victor, grinning to his ears. “They were having a moment.”

“And _I’ll_ have a moment if you don’t get your ass and your baggage to the car. I’m too old for this shit, Vitya.”

“You’re moving in with Victor?” Yuri asks, looking at a suddenly shy Yuuri. “For how long?”

Yuuri rubs the back of his head like he’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Until the next Grand Prix Final?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s staying to train with us, of course!” Victor yells, eyes sparkling like a million stars.

With one look alone, Victor tells Yuri, _Thank you._

So maybe Yuri’s legacy will be erased by another fiercely persistent skater one day. Maybe Yuri is already more than halfway in years to retirement. But in this one thing he did, keeping those two dolts together by sheer force, perhaps the gold he achieved is less in medals and more in the relationships made.

Is that too cheesy? You fucking bet it is. He’d bleach that thought gone if he could. (He doesn't.)

“Someone looks happy at the news,” Victor teases, about to poke Yuri’s cheek until his finger gets bitten.

Ignoring Victor’s false tears, Yuri sternly says, “We’re wasting our time here. Let’s go.”

And so they go. Outside the airport, the sky pours streams of pink, orange, and golden light from the incoming sunrise, the sight of which brings too many memories for Yuri to count.

At this point, only one thought comes to mind, and this time it isn’t so bad:

_I’m happy._

 

* * *

 

Epilogue

 

“You’re right, this is pretty good.”

“Right?! I have a great taste for these kinds of things.”

“I believe that.”

Yuri’s grin is toothy and sharp as he watches Otabek take another bite of katsudon. There’s a blistering heat ravaging Tokyo in the summer, but the end of the world couldn't stop Yuri from getting Otabek to taste authentic katsudon, even if Yuri had to shove it down his friend’s throat. It's unnecessary, luckily.

They fall into a comfortable silence after Yuri starts eating his own share. The buzz of the air conditioning is heavy and pleasantly monotonous, an urban chorus mimicking that of the cicadas Yuri remembers in Hasetsu.

When he looks up, he sees Otabek staring at him, but not. There’s a blank, unfocused haze to Otabek’s stare, like he’s lost to an apparently very compelling reverie. His gaze is the same as back then at the end of Yakov’s training camp, when Yuri caught him bathed in sunlight and contemplation.

“Your head will hurt with how deep you must be in thought,” Yuri says, laugh in his tone. He laughs a little more at the way Otabek blinks himself back to reality. “Someone told me that once. Thinking hard about something?”

“Thinking, yes. Thinking hard? That’s your thing.” Otabek expertly avoids the kick Yuri tries to execute under the table. “Some things don’t need to be thought about very hard.”

“Someone’s being sassy today. That’s _my_ thing.”

“You’ve got a lot of things.”

Yuri curls his lip. “Like what?”

Now is the perfect opportunity to slam Yuri. He’s got anger issues, pride issues, _Victor Nikiforov_  issues, a dangerous knack for doing dangerous shit, being impulsive as hell—the list can stretch to the moon and back many times over.

But Otabek, being Otabek, says nothing of the sort. Instead, with a face so humorously straight, he says something that may as well have been a proposal in Yuri’s ears.

“You’ve got me.”

The current Living Legend of Russia doesn’t swoon. Yuri Plisetsky, well, he’s a different story. But that’s a tale for another day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I guess you could say Yuri’s pretty…metal. *badum tss* Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts. x
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://aijee.tumblr.com)


End file.
